


Drops of Cinnamon

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Wild and Free [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: A Roomba makes an appearance, Cinnamon flavored oils, Conversations on the floor, Kinks, M/M, Massage, Tattooed!Q - Freeform, Tattoos, and narco-engineering toasters, back massages, warming massage oil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q gets a massage, Bond gets a conversation. No one's really surprised until they are, actually, surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drops of Cinnamon

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my sort of fluff. **shrugs** Not as exciting as porn, but I love these two so much that I'm building my own little world. 
> 
>  
> 
> Again, not Beta'd, Brit-Picked, or even bothered with, because it's for fun.

“At what point, would you say, should I just say to hell with this and just blow it up for my amusement?”

Bond looked up from his phone and raised his eyebrows at the mad man sitting on the floor in front of him. “Do you want to make it explode?”

“Preferably not. It could be important one day.” Q poked a tiny, tiny screwdriver into the inner workings of a Roomba. “But what exactly would I mount to it? I’m thinking of a miniaturized Sentry automated gun turret.”

“What the hell would it fire? Pellets?”

Q scowled and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be pedestrian. Poison darts. Very poisoned darts. Never skimp on poison, James. If you want the job done right, always go overboard.”

“Overboard gets you notes, genius.” Bond stretched out a bare foot and stroked Q’s naked shoulder. Well, it would be bare, except that there was a new pattern inked there, a new stream of code that the agent couldn’t decipher to save his life. He traced each line with his bare toe. “Notes are bad.”

“But you get the job done.” Q’s words purred out of him as he leaned into the hard press of Bond’s appendage, and groaned. “I’ve a knot there...just...there, yes, oh perfect.” He sighed as Bond pushed harder into the ball of irritated muscle. “You are a perfect man, James. No wonder the ladies love you.”

Bond huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “They love me for my false personality and my cock.”

“Well, at least I’m not just another woman to wine, dine, and take back to mine.”

“Nope. Just had to nearly kill myself, ask for booze, and damn near get devoured.”

Q smirked. “Ah, yes. Well, we can’t all be a super secret agent, now can we?” He leaned back into Bond’s foot and groaned. “God, that feels good.”

“I bet it does. You’ve got one hell of a knot there. Is that just from standing at your desk?”

“Yes. Sixteen hours of being on your feet, hunched over a keyboard will do that to you.” Q stretched and the agent felt a bone thunk back into place, accompanied by an utterly blissful groan that rolled out of the hacker’s mouth and inserted itself into Bond’s memory right alongside the sound the younger man makes when Bond cants his hips just right and drives into him hard. “Oh, holy Mary that felt grand.”

“Alright, Q. Lay down on the blanket.” Bond pushed to his feet and set his phone aside.

“Why?”

“I’m going to give you a massage.”

The hacker dropped the Roomba and screwdriver. “Really? Are you really going to give me a massage, or are you going to rub my back then use that as an excuse to bugger me?”

Bond barked out a laugh. “A real massage. Scout’s honor.”

Q huffed, but it was with a smile. “Fine. But I owe you one.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be able to touch my back without turning me into a scratching post.” Bond winced, still feeling the marks the younger man had left two nights ago when Bond had decided to figure out just how long it would take Q to beg if he only used his tongue to open him up. For the record, it was five minutes and twenty eight seconds.

“I will not!” The indignant squeak was worth it. Bond smirked.

“I know.” He moved to what Q considered a bedside table but he saw as a squat two-drawered gunmetal grey file cabinet. “Do you have any sort of lotion in this thing?”

Q snorted. “I’m a young man. Think about it.”

“So, lube. But I’m talking lotion.” Bond opened the bottom one first, and found plasters, a bottle of Russian Standard (half gone, yes, Q has a drinking problem too if he’s got a bottle next to the bed), wires in assorted colors and gauges, a book about quantum mechanics, a bag of gummi bears, and a tattoo magazine with a half naked woman on the front. “Nice tits.”

“Silicone, most likely. But the Japanese koi ink on her side is breathtaking.”

Bond pulled it out, realizing it wasn’t a tattoo magazine, but a skin magazine. Porn. “You like women, too?”

“Ha. Sexuality. Fiddly thing. I don’t mind anything, as long as it doesn’t involve animals or children.”

“Oh.” He pulled open the top drawer. “Q, do you have anything in this flat that hasn’t been taken over by electronics or parts thereof?” He rifled through the circuit boards and found lube and a bottle of warming oil. “Oh, this works better than lotion, actually. Perfect.”

Q rolled onto his stomach on the blanket spread out on the floor. “You found the oil? I love it, actually. When I don’t feel like smelling like an old man, I tend to use it on my wrists. Not as good as an actual rub, but it smells so much better.”

Bond had noticed the brace in the top drawer, too. “Carpal tunnel?”

“Tendonitis. I will get CT by the time I’m thirty-five, though, at this rate.” He sighed into his arms. “I’m not taking my pyjama bottoms off for this, just so you know.”

“That’s fine.” Bond set the bottle on the blanket next to the hacker’s hip and knelt down next to him, his knees cracking worryingly. Q lifted his head.

“They make shots for that.”

The agent waved that away. “Not important right now.” He smoothed a hand over the designs on Q’s skin, tracing the straight lines and bits of shadowed wire and connection, marveling at how the artist who’d marked the hacker was able to make something 3D on a flat surface as finicky as human skin. He flicked the cap on the oil with his free hand and drizzled some into the dip in Q’s back, and spread it around, Q’s faint exhale suddenly the most important thing in the flat. “Does that feel good already?”

“I don’t think you realise how long it’s been since I’ve had a massage, James. I’m going to be putty in your hands in about ten minutes, just a warning.”

Bond nodded, and swung a leg over Q’s thighs so that he was straddling the smaller man. Q craned his head back. “What’s this?”

“Just getting into position, love, is all.” Bond smirked. “Don’t you want a good massage?”

His head swung back to his arm. “Apparently, I’ve been gypped on even good ones, then.” The first press of Bond’s thumbs into the base of his spine, right above his coccyx, made him shiver in a sensation reaction. “Bloody hell.” It felt like his whole pelvis went numb. “That feels odd.”

“Nerves, love.” Bond circled his thumbs, and started working his way up the bones of Q’s spine, following the natural lines of the muscles, rubbing intently at each tough spot or knot he found on his way.

Q couldn’t help the cooing noise that rumbled out of him as the agent’s hands moved up along the tired and knotted muscles. “Oh, wow. Oh, that feels good!” His hands wanted to curl and extend, much like a cat kneading. It’s something he did, apparently. He held in that particular impulse and just focused on the exquisite feelings he was getting from Bond’s hands on his skin, touching and pressing, digging into bundles of muscles and tight spots, working the cinnamon-scented (and flavored, thank you) oil into his skin. He could imagine what his tattoo was looking like, caught in the bright glow of the overhead light. The way Bond’s breath caught in his throat, much like how it had when he’d seen it for the first time, told Q all he needed to know. The oil would bring out the stark black and smoky greys, the outlines and the flashes of color and code marching across his skin, and making everything shiny and sparkly and brand new, like the day he got them. He felt his back relax by increments, little by little, slowly releasing tension built up over the months, until he really did feel like a limp over-cooked noodle. He didn’t want to move. He really really didn’t, especially when those talented fingers slid up his neck and pushed lightly at the base of his skull, right were the android tattoos were. Oh. Sometimes he was so slow. But he’s figured it out now.

“You’ve a fetish, Bond.” The worlds rolled out, silky smooth and lazy. The fingers paused for just a second, then continued as if nothing happened.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Ever since you found out about them, you’ve done nothing but fondle and touch.” Even at work, little subtle brushes of shoulders against the spot between his shoulder blades where the lines break apart to their separate areas on the motherboard of his back. He wasn’t complaining, but soon the minions will find out and then what? To what lengths could M turn a blind eye to the fact that two of the most valued members of the Double O programme were shagging like teenagers or poodles? “Are you a poodle, James?”

Now the fingers stopped altogether. “Oh God, what the hell are you talking about?” The words came out as a laugh. The wet tip of a tongue on the nape of his neck was accompanied by an amused huff of air that tickled wickedly at the oil on his neck and upper shoulder. Q moaned softly, his body registering the sensation. “Oh, this stuff is flavored, too?”

Q smirked into his forearm. “Cinnamon flavored. Yes. I love it.”

“Wonder what it would feel like on my cock?”

“Oh, my God.” Q couldn’t help his animalistic growl. “Yes.” He rolled his head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.”

“Yes, and I expect you to at least acknowledge that it’s correct.”

“What is?”

Q huffed, but he was too boneless to attempt to roll over to face the recalcitrant man. “You are being deliberately obstinate. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh.” Bond chuckled. “You mean the accusation that I have a tattoo kink.”

“Well, you already have a weapons kink. Why not a tattoo kink.”

Bond smirked against Q’s shoulder blade. “I do not have a weapons kink.”

“Explain the way you shifted position in your seat when I showed you the improved Browning?”

“The one with the adaptive biometric that cost more than some small islands?”

“The same. Also the same one you lost in Siberia. Again.”

A small blossom of pain as the agent set his teeth into the bunch of muscle at the base of Q’s neck. “I couldn’t help it. I was out of bullets, and a polar bear was chasing me.”

“So you throw the gun at it?”

“Caught its attention for all of three seconds.”

“Anyway. You have a weapons kink, you have a tattoo kink - do not argue with me on this, James, you are tracing mine with your bleeding tongue - “

“Cinnamon.”

“ - whatever, and you also seem to love watching me retro-engineer things.”

“I really love it when you get up in the middle of the night in a fit of sleepwalking, come out into the kitchen, and narco-engineer a better working toaster.”

Q smiled into the blanket as Bond used his teeth to nip a path along the cut of his left shoulder blade. “I prefer the ones that don’t blow up when I wake up and attempt to make toast in the morning.”

“You have to admit, that was funny,” Bond breathed against the newest set of code. “What does this mean?”

Q had to think for a moment. “I think it’s just a random bit of programming to tell the computer to run MS Paint.”

“No.”

“I have no idea, actually.” Q shrugged. “Linux?”

Bond pulled his oiled fingers down Q’s too-prominent ribs. “You need to eat more.”

“I eat plenty.”

“Every three days.”

“I’m fine.” Q arched his back, pushing his rear against Bond’s half hard cock. “My body can operate on less sleep and less food than most people because it’s what it’s used to. If you were to try to feed me up and make me sleep more now, I’ll become an aubergine.”

Bond laughed and bit his shoulder. “I don’t think so. I think you would be a normal weight, and then I could start training you without worrying about breaking you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Q bucked a bit, just enough to get Bond to sit up, and then he rolled over onto his elbows and hipbones. “I’m fine. You won’t break me, and I’m much stronger than I look. I thought I’d already proven that.”

“In bed, yes.” Bond conceded that point. “But not in a fight.”

Q dropped his head back, exposing an insane amount of pale neck, his pulse throbbing against the stretched skin. Bond resisted the urge to lick it, mark it, _bite it_. “A fight." He sighed, a great heaving motion of his chest that signalled that he was getting a bit irritated. "Bond, you do realise that I’m actually trained in jiu-jitsu?”

That gave Bond pause. Wait. Really? “...No?”

“Yes, I am. You didn’t know that?” Q rolled to his feet and walked over to a box in the corner, by the master bedroom, and extracted a frame. He brought it back over. “Here. This is the certificate.”

Bond looked down at it. Sure enough, it was a certificate of completion of a black belt course. He looked back up to find Q holding a black and red belt. “7th ranked. You’d be hard-pressed to win a fight against me, James Bond.”

“Oh, really.” Bond smirked up at him. “We’ll just have to see about that.”

****  
  
  
  
  



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